


It's A Pinterest Christmas Miracle... Kind Of

by uglywombat



Series: Love In A Time Of North Korea [4]
Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Accidental Lovemaking, Accidentally falling in love with your sworn enemy, Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Frenemies with Benefits, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27846542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: Part of the Love In A Time Of North Korea series, Months, an embarrassing amount of sex, and dangerous territory feelings have passed since Cliff became the unfortunate and involuntary audience to a hot and steamy tryst in the Blue Wing at the Boston Museum of Science. Treading the murky waters of North Korea is especially hard around Christmas. When feelings are rife and guards are down, anyone can become a victim of the deadliest beast of all: love.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Original Female Character(s), Ransom Drysdale/Reader, Ransom Drysdale/You
Series: Love In A Time Of North Korea [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776646
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	It's A Pinterest Christmas Miracle... Kind Of

There is an unwritten rule when it comes to the magical rabbit warren that is Pinterest: nothing is as easy as it looks.

Nothing. 

Your kitchen table resembles the aftermath of an Elton John karaoke night gone spectacularly wrong… or fabulously right. 

Reginald, the Prickly Pear Cactus stands proudly with his finest miniature multi-coloured baubles beside Andy Serkis the Gollum Jade in the centre of the table. Both sparkle in the light of the low hanging copper pendants above the table, victims of packaging that refused to open and the subsequent glitter assault. You’ll be washing glitter out of your hair for weeks to come, let alone the months it will take to free the wooden floorboards of the destructive glitz. 

Your overheated apartment is pungent with the fumes of glue and nail polish; the blackened oak now looking like a knock-off Jackson Pollack piece, splatters of neon pink nail polish and glittery glue surrounding your “work station”. Ransom will have a conniption when he sees your failed attempt at Christmas craft and the “destruction” of his precious table. 

The memory of said gift arriving at your apartment early one Sunday morning is vivid: hazy and hungover, you opened your door to see your filthy rich fuck buddy and four delivery men with the largest and heaviest table you have ever seen in your life. 

Albeit forced upon you, and not that you would ever admit it to the thorn in your side, the table has proven to be very useful. After an unfortunate incident in which Kyle nearly set fire to your department’s shared office after attempting to improve a homemade volcano, you’ve been forced to work from home. That is unless you’re required to go in to give a tour to a school or attend a tedious meeting. The table has become your little work haven and Instragammable feature in your old apartment. 

And, as Ransom proved, a solid dining table can be versatile. Unfortunately, your dissolvable stitches are itchy as all hell and you are still designing a plausible story to tell your folks about its origin story. 

What? Like you’re going to tell them the truth? 

_ Yes, mother, the man who I fuck on occasion and am definitely not having feelings for was shagging me on the table doggy style and propelled me forward into the copper pendant light. It was totally worth the three orgasms and the ER doctor got a good chuckle at my expense.  _

You nearly knock over your wine glass as you haphazardly reach over the army of painted and glittered toy dinosaurs, blindly grabbing the glass with three of your unrestrained fingers, reminding yourself to google how to quickly and effectively get craft glue off of your skin without causing too much damage. 

A particularly dull and humdrum department budget meeting had seen you fall down the Pinterest void and quickly stumbling across dinosaur Christmas ornaments. You had to have them. A brief Google search and you had quickly come to the conclusion that rich people (mostly Ransom) ruined everything and you weren’t prepared to drop nearly $100 for just six ornaments.

The initial decision to attempt making them yourself was made blindly and on a whim as your craft skills are extinct, but living in Boston isn’t cheap and the museum doesn’t exactly pay well. 

But you had to have them.

And now, surrounded by glitter and glue, your fingers aching and stuck together, you curse Pinterest. And rich people. Hopefully, if nobody looks too closely they will not see the hodgepodge attempt at frugal Christmasing. 

A little high off of the fumes wafting off the nail polish, definitely drunk and lost in the crooning voice of The Wombats singing “ _ Is This Christmas _ ”, you don’t register the tinkle of keys in your cherry red apartment door. The cool breeze accompanying your guest doesn’t draw your attention, but the slamming of the door does. 

“Are you trying to break another door, prick?” you shriek before seeing the darkening purple bruise around his eye. “Have a run-in with a lamp post again?”   
  


Ransom, looking sexy AF in his Prada tailored pants, cable-knit jumper, and loafers grimaces, clearly a little drunk from the Drysdale/Thrombey Christmas fiasco. Well, you assume the Christmas party was a fiasco, given his current state. “Walt and charades happened.  **I may have punched him… it’s a blur.** ”

You scoff, turning your attention back to the disaster of a neon orange Ankylosaurus sitting before you. “There’s an icepack in the freezer, don’t waste my edamame again.”

“Thanks for the sympathy, Florence Nightingale,” he bites back before storming into your small kitchen and violently rummages through your freezer. 

The truth: it’s not sympathy you drown in but empathy. And Ransom knows this. A drunken night on top-shelf scotch he had stolen from Walt had seen you both spilling your guts, metaphorically and literally later on. 

Perhaps that’s a part of what keeps you tied together, like kamikaze moths to the flame. Two fucked up souls, undeserving of healthy, adult-like relationships, you’re destined to fuck and fight for the rest of your lives, ignoring the ever-festering ecosystem of feelings.   
  


A simmering tension has made itself apparent over the past few months, as the peace treaty surrounding North Korea - aka your feelings - has wavered. You shouldn’t, but you can feel yourself falling for the man you have been casually sleeping with for more time than you would care to admit. He’s an asshole; Ransom is cruel and selfish. He’s quick to insult you and put you down when he feels threatened. 

Perhaps it’s the broken, irredeemable boy in him that keeps that flickering flame alight, the one that makes it impossible to hate him with every fibre of your being. And tempting you back into his arms and on to his very talented dick. 

Over time, this has become more than just hot and steamy sex. Perhaps the sex is to blame for the bond that holds you together despite your acrid fucked up feelings. 

Whatever it is, North Korea needs to shut its goddamn borders before someone completely opens the emotional floodgates and you both drown. 

“Why are you pretending to be Martha Stewart?” You hadn’t realised he was standing so close behind you, looking over your shoulder until he spoke. “If you wanted to work out some tension you could have just called me instead of destroying your brand new table in some pathetic creative outlet.” He helps himself to what is left in your wine glass, his face contorting into a disgusted expression at the acidic but sickly sweet cheap wine you had picked up on your way home from the craft store. 

“Why are you here, other than to insult me, sex demon?” you snap, snatching the glass from his hand and setting it onto the table beside a lime green Stegosaurus. 

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he responds gruffly, pressing himself against your back, hot and starved lips seeking out the sensitive, panty-ruining spot in the crook of your neck. Goddamn, how does he know your body so well? “Need you.”

You shouldn’t give in so easily. You really, really shouldn’t. For once you could say no, you have at least forty more miniature dinosaurs to decorate, and getting dicked down isn’t a priority. But, it’s easy to blame the tight-wallet wine and toxic fumes of your art attack for your quick descent. 

The taste of expensive scotch is heavy on his lips, tainted with the sweetly tart tannins of your bargain wine and the bitter cigarette he’d no doubt puffed on before making his way into your apartment building. His tongue, all dominant and demanding, snakes around yours as long fingers grip your waist tightly. 

The push and pull to dictate your sex-romps or be ordered is a never-ending battle. Ordinarily, you love nothing more than a man to dominate, to play your strings like a world-class cellist. But, there’s something about pushing your sex-friend’s buttons. 

It’s a frenzy, like a school of blacktip sharks feeding on chum, flying clothes narrowly missing china dinosaur ornaments and potted succulents. Not that either of you notices, the need to feel and taste each other too great and demanding. 

The prick tastes expensive, the sweet and heady scent of his aftershave is intoxicating as you desperately latch your teeth onto what bare flesh you can. His grip on your hair tightens as you force your hand down the front of his slacks. Of course, he’s not wearing underwear… 

He lets out a guttural groan as you squeeze his rock hard length and is quick to dominate you with a starved and debauched kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, the feel of his hands gripping and cupping your hair is that perfect level of hot. 

Bloody perfection.

Ransom’s skin is so hot under your hand it burns. His heat, his touch, his scent - it’s the flawless potion to draw you under his spell. Your head spins as his kiss dictates your every move and you’re powerless as he snakes a hand down to the waistband of your leggings. He’s quick to tear them down over your thighs and legs before running his fingers over your very wet pussy. 

You wish your body wasn’t so weak and quick to give in to him but alas it does. Each and every time. 

His hum is loud and satisfied to find you so ready for him. You’re kryptonite and ecstasy all mixed into one deadly and addictive cocktail. 

Somehow, a wonder in your hazy wine-fueled state, you are urged backward to the table. How you do not trip over the leggings entangled at your ankles or the minefield of clothes on the floor is literally a Christmas miracle. 

All you know is the second your ass connects with that table, Ransom is picking you up and hurling you onto its surface, your leggings somehow missing the still undressed Christmas tree as he launches them from your legs and over his shoulder. 

Lifting up your hips and spreading your legs wide, he throws you from your axis and the back of your head launches into the copper pendant light again. But the pain is long forgotten as he buries himself deep, right to the hilt in the warmth of your channel.

It’s like fucking nirvana. It’s honest to god heaven on earth when he is filling you up. 

The air is literally sucked from your chest as your walls stretch and burn against him. God, you cannot wait for him to move, to feel the rough and unapologetic blaze of his thick cock pulling and pushing against you, the aggressive slap of skin against you…

But he doesn’t move. 

Everything is still, quiet, serene as he gently holds your face and studies your face, his brow furrowed slightly. It’s strange but sweet. It completely throws you.

You both breathe in sync as he slowly draws his hips back and sets an unhurried and calm pace. His eyes do not move, locked on yours as he pulls you closer to him. You can just discern the honey-sweet, smoky scents of the whiskey he had been drinking.

Drowning in a sea of sapphire, your breaths are harmonious and strangely metaphysical. 

He kisses you slowly and tenderly as you lock your fingers in his soft dark blonde locks, relishing in the heady flavour that is so uniquely him. Your walls instinctively clench and shudder against his thick cock as his tongue teases your lips. You wrap your legs around his perfectly pert ass.

Ordinarily, your fuck-sessions are scorching heat and a raging war of words. This is… beautiful. Serene.

This isn’t fucking it’s….

Oh god.

Oh no.

Abort!

Abort mission!

The borders have been breached and North Korea is invading!

You are making love with Hugh Ransom Drysdale!

Get the fuck out of here!

But you can’t. You’re so connected, so lost in him… 

Your orgasm, soul-suckingly good, takes you by surprise. You feel every surge of pleasure course through veins and muscles as you quake around him, his lips mere millimeters from yours as you cry softly. 

As you fall from the high, he’s quick to catch you in a deep, torturous kiss.

Goddamn, you should not be enjoying this. This wild, organic, and world-shattering connection should not exist. But it does and you are drowning in it. 

With unhurried ease, Ransom snaps his hips, his pubic bone connecting with your clit with the precision of a skilled surgeon.

His thumb drags along your bottom lip as he watches you crumble under his intense stare. 

Your cry is wretched as you come again, your walls clamping and quaking as your body shakes. His usual Dr. Evil grin is not there, instead, he watches on in wonder as your orgasm wrecks you.

Literally wrecks you. 

A heated, starved sigh falls from your lips as he coaxes you to lean back onto your hands behind you, his tongue and teeth quick to feast on your nipples and breasts. Ransom takes his time to explore you, his fingers drawn all over your body, your face. He memorizes the curve in your waist, the swell of your breast. He savours the moment.

When he is close, he draws you back up with his hands caressing your face. You’re once again immersed in a sea of aqua and floating on the ledge of your orgasm. 

“Wait for me,” he begs, breathless and desperate. 

Your hands grip his face in turn and you kiss him hungrily. “Always.”

Harmonized hip thrusts and tender, petite kisses only serve to deepen the connection. You should flee but you are too far gone.

You feel him tense and the warmth flow of his seed as you come one final time. Holding each other right and eyes locked, you fly together. 

Unable to breathe. Speechless. Nirvana.

And then stone-cold reality sets in as you crash back down to earth. 

You have just made love with your sworn fuck-enemy and there is no going back.

Except neither of you speaks. Naked and trying to catch your breath, you try not to watch Ransom collect his clothes and dress. You force yourself to stare at the undecorated fake Christmas tree as he fights back the urge to address the red, white, and blue elephant in the room.

You can’t breathe as he approaches the table. God don’t let this happen. Abort.

Ransom can only watch on as you launch yourself from the table and blaze a trail through the tiny apartment, your bedroom door slamming shut behind you. 

A wrecked, somber sigh escapes his lips as he pockets a small item from the pile and quickly makes his pathetic escape.

*************

Dread, bitter and frigid, fills Ransom’s veins as the engine turns for the last time, the lights of his BMW illuminating the garage door. The tension he has been carrying in his shoulders since he had run like a coward from your apartment only grows as he gazes up into the darkness of his house.

He can’t bring himself to go inside even though it is bitterly cold. It pains him to even think about spending another evening in the soulless modern building he doesn’t deserve to call home.

Ransom knows he is a bad man. He is completely aware that he is selfish and elitist. You deserve more than the venomous barbs he throws at you in some vain attempt to protect you from him. 

And yet, he’s too greedy to let you go. The mere thought of you belonging to another is enough to send him into a fit of rage and alcohol-fueled stupor. 

As he plays over the stupid array of emotions you’ve both drowned in tonight, his fingers mindlessly fuss over the small object in his pocket. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize he’s pulling his hand from his coat and moving the object between his hands.

That is until the strong scent of nail polish hits his senses. Looking down, the forest green Iguanodon glistens in the bright light of the full moon beaming through the car windows. He shouldn’t know what an Iguanodon is but he does - because of you. 

You are the only person on this goddamn, shit-stained earth that he will actually have a conversation with, that he is genuinely interested in. He doesn’t show you but he is utterly and undeservedly in love with you.

And as much as he will never merit it, he wants nothing more than to spend a lifetime listening to you prattle on and on about dinosaurs he has never heard of. He wants to hear about your never-ending feud with Kyle and the Karakoram pile of paperwork needing to be sorted in the basement of the museum. 

And then he wants to be the one to bring a smile to your face.

He wants this and so much more. But he will never have it. 

He knows it is cruel to keep you in his life like this but he just can’t imagine losing the one glimmer of light in his stupidly dark world.

But how much longer can this go on for before the waters grow murkier or one of you drowns?

Fucking North Korea.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome 🧡


End file.
